My fault
by Tomoe2
Summary: After discovering his brother almost ODed on a plane, Mycroft heads back to the Diogenes Club in a haze.


How the sky had turned from that clear blue to heavy rain, he couldn't have explained. He'd gotten in the car in a daze quite uncommon for a man such as himself. He could barely remember having been in the car, nor having given directions for the Diogenes Club. The only beacon in this haze had been his gloved hands gripping his notebook. The flame of a lighthouse, that little black book had burnt through his fingers, preventing him from crashing completely on the rocks of oblivion. How he would have welcomed it. But it wasn't to be so. I couldn't be allowed.

He now sat in his favourite room at the club. He had asked to be left alone; he had been heard. He had watched as the shadows of night had crept across the wooden floor. Yet, he had not truly seen them. The rain, relentless, had muted the outside world. A great night for secrecy and for devising plans to save – or end – Britain. Had Guy Fawkes conspired with his brethren on a night such as this one? He closed his still gloved fists on his lap. Brethren. Brothers. He sighed.

With slow and deliberate movements, he took the black notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket. He didn't usually believe in writing things down; too risky, too easy to compromise. However, he would not have this information on his brother be known. On his person was the only safe place. Her dropped the book on his lap and took off his gloves before neatly putting them away on the armrest of his chair. He picked the book anew and opened it at the first page.

The date seemed so far away, his handwriting so unsure. There had been no list that time. That very first time. He flicked a few pages and the first lists appeared. At first, they'd been disorganized, but as his brother's addiction had become more serious, the lists had become more exhaustive. So organized at times (alphabetical order, ordered by elements of composition...) that he couldn't believe that his brother had not been mocking him. Truth be told, he probably deserved it. After all, he had been instrumental to his fall.

He flicked a few more pages. The dates were spaced. The good Doctor had been a great influence. At least until Moriarty. From there, things had worsened. Yet, there had always been a list. Even when Watson had been the one finding him, the slip of paper had always found his way to his desk. Until recently. His brother had been erratic, so unlike himself that it had been hard, even for a man which resources such as himself, to keep an eye out.

He turned to the blank page where he had inserted the torn list. With trembling hands he reassemble the puzzle. The content was appalling. Even with his knowledge of chemistry, his brother could have easily killed himself. Had it been the plan all along? Surely not. That wasn't something the Holmes did. Killing others? Possibly. Oneself? Unlikely.

He closed the notebook shut and slid it back in its pocket. He clenched his fist anew. His hands were steady. They had to be.

 _Caring is not an advantage._

He took a deep breath. He repeated the words in his mind, a mantra to safely guard the doors of his heart. A man of his importance didn't let such matters obscure his brain. He needed his wits about him, he needed to be sharp. Yet this old pain, fed over the years, pressed at the gates menacingly. The hinges, rusted with age and fatigue could not perfectly insure the compartmentalization of his thoughts anymore. With each list, with each vision of his brother in such a state, his defenses had weakened. Yet he couldn't allow himself to falter. It would simply destroy Mother and Father to know of their favourite son's distress. He had to bear it all on his own. Just like he had for the other.

He gritted his teeth and swallowed the wave of guilt that threatened to submerge him. He could not, however, stop the tears that escaped his eyes. He suppressed a sob.

 _This is pointless, Mycroft._

 _This is not helping, Mycroft._

 _You are ridiculous, Mycroft._

He heard Sherlock's voice ring clear in his mind. He gripped the armrests with both hands.

"I know, brother mine." he whispered.

I know.

I decided to write this one shot story because I couldn't help but think of Mycroft's pain and loneliness. While Sherlock can rely on his friends, Mycroft has only himself to hold his entire world (and England) together. I'd like to believe that he's not as heartless as Sherlock makes him makes him to be.


End file.
